Where Stillness, Fog, and First Light Meet the Water’s Edge
At Dinkins Bay, morning doesn’t arrive all at once—it seeps in slowly, like tea in still water. The light comes quietly and low, filtering through the fog like a whispered promise. It paints the red-sided house and the moored boats in hues of amber and ash, casting long shadows that stretch out over the soft, rippling bay. The mist hovers, not in a rush to leave, and the world holds its breath.
There’s a stillness here that feels both ancient and immediate. The boats, tethered and waiting, seem half-asleep, and the wooden dock, damp from the night, creaks gently with the memory of old footsteps. Even the birds seem hesitant, circling high above as if not to disturb the spell. In this hour, time falters. The early light doesn’t just reveal the bay—it transforms it into something timeless, where each reflection, each breath of fog, becomes part of a quiet and enduring story.